


May Fortune Smile Upon Your Future (And Opportunity Bless Your Past)

by Kisleth



Series: Of Piratical Notions, Faulty Compasses, and the Resulting Misadventures on the High Seas [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirates, Gen, Hand poked tattoos, Tattoos, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:41:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1685411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisleth/pseuds/Kisleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s turned you into a bright-eyed bonnie laddie?” Natasha’s voice is flat, but flat in a way that Clint knows is her way of covering up the fondness in her voice.</p><p>“Jus’ remembering how we met.” Clint rolls his head toward her and gives his most roguish, lop-sided grin. “You were quite rude, you know.”</p><p>“Never.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	May Fortune Smile Upon Your Future (And Opportunity Bless Your Past)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sidneybelveire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidneybelveire/gifts).



> This will be the first in a collection that I may not write chronologically. It will center mainly around Clint, Natasha, and Phil and their relationship with each other. Natasha will only have (very caring) platonic relationships with them.

Clint lounges back on the large coils of rope and a spare sail canvas as if it were the most comfortable seat on the whole sea. He’s lying to himself, his bunk would be so much better than this, but it’s crowded and noisy below decks. Natasha refuses to work on his tattoo in there. Plus the off-duty crew members are trying to sleep.

His shirt is tucked into his trouser pocket and his right arm is tucked behind his head to use as a pillow. The sun has just finished setting and the water under them is the calmest it’s been in weeks. He sighs, boneless in his reclining as his closest friend carefully wraps thread around a needle and dips it into India ink.

Natasha’s left hand wraps firmly around his wrist to keep him for moving as her other grips the needle and quickly jabs his skin. They’ve been far too busy as of late to work on the phoenix tattoo on his forearm, but finally. A quiet night.

Clint has almost felt a little incomplete himself when he looks down at the arched neck and open beak of the firebird. It screams out its rage at being left as it is. He watches Natasha’s quick, efficient movements until she clicks her tongue softly against her teeth. Clint scrounges on the deck next to him carefully for a clean rag to daub away some of the blood that rises to the surface in the wake of Natasha’s treatment.

The quiet of the night almost lulls him to sleep, but he keeps his mind awake as he retells himself the lore of the stars above them. The ship rocks a little leeward and the lantern next to Natasha slides on the deck. Clint carefully moves to shift it but Natasha squeezes her thumb into the tender underside of his wrist. “Leave it.”

“Given my druthers, I druther you not stick me in the dark.” Clint drawls. He reaches out and tugs lightly on a scarlet curl that had escaped the richly patterned scarf Natasha has wrapped around her head. When sieging other ships, she always wore it loose and down; like the color of her hair, it’s a key part of her savage costume. The Black Widow. Clint remembers the first day he saw her…

“Given _my_ druthers, I druther not stick you at all. Isn’t that Cou—” Clint covers her mouth, hyper aware of crewmates near enough to hear. Natasha just looks triumphant, not annoyed, and jabs him in the arm again with the needle.

Clint bites back an oath and shoots her the dirtiest glare he can manage. She looks smug and Clint slumps down sullenly. His mind returns to his recollection of their meeting, of Natasha in black, head to toe, except the bright crimson hourglass across her abdomen which had earned her her name. Men had criticized the corset but Clint had always seen things others couldn’t and knew, knew that there were weapons inside that feminine clothing. It had sparked his interest.

He smiles a little at the memories that he knows will follow.

“What’s turned you into a bright-eyed bonnie laddie?” Natasha’s voice is flat, but flat in a way that Clint knows is her way of covering up the fondness in her voice.

“Jus’ remembering how we met.” Clint rolls his head toward her and gives his most roguish, lop-sided grin. “You were quite rude, you know.”

“Never.” Natasha finishes up the neck and starts at the shoulder of a wing. “I’m a lady, and ladies are never rude.” She ignores his snort of derision. On the upside, she also doesn’t jab him with the needle in revenge.

“You didn’t have to flat-out deny me. I was just looking for a job.” Clint continues, dabbing more blood away from his arm. “I’m a bloody amazing sailor. Perfect first mate material too.”

“I know that now. Then you were drunk and being more than suggestive.”

“Did I soil your delicate tendencies? Stain your purity?”

“You were embarrassing, Barton.” Natasha snips.

“Right in the heart.” Clint covers his own with his hand, bloodied rag and all. “Tasha, you wound me deeply.”

“Not as such as I wanted when you were rum-addled and egoistic.” She dips the needle to soak more ink into the tightly wound thread. “No self-respecting captain of any ship—even a dinghy—would hire you. Why degrade myself?”

“But then I did something impressive.” Clint reminds her.

“You sobered up.”

Clint tugs on a curl of hers, watching it spring up and flick her in the cheek. “After that.” There’s a glint in her eye and he knows she’s trying not to laugh at him. “I saved your life, o Captain, my Captain.”

“That you did.” Natasha agrees. She’d been drugged, beaten while unconscious. Her recently hired crew had mutinied before they’d even set sail and all because she had told them flat out that she was the captain—not some hired floozy to gather the men. As soon as she could collect her wits, she fought back but there were so many of them.

To this day she doesn’t remember how or when Clint arrived (although he assures her every time it was skillful and magnificent—which makes her think it was really the exact opposite). She remembers the sound of knives singing, expertly thrown by the very man she’d refused. Needless to say, he became her first mate.

“Did I ever say thank you?” She asks. She releases his wrist and plucks the rag out of his hand to daub at the blood and ink running down his arm.

“I don’t think so. Not in words. But I’m your first mate.”

“And friend.”

“That one is given.” Clint grins at her. The corner of her mouth twitches in response. “It’s better than thanks. I don’t need thanks.”

“I don’t need a first mate.” Natasha replies in a rare bout of teasing. (Not really so rare. Only rare with the rest of the crew about deck. Can’t have them see Natasha be soft or play favorites.)

(Everyone knows Clint is her favorite.)

Clint coughs, “bullshit!”

Natasha tosses the rag at his face and puts the ink and her other tools away. “That’s enough for tonight. Can’t risk the sun ruining this one.” Clint’s first tattoo had been a bit of a failure when too much sun had ruined it and the shedding skin and extra healing required had pulled almost all the ink from the skin and they had had to redo everything.

Clint looks down at his arm to admire what she’d done while his mind was off reminiscing. The phoenix now has shoulders and the first swoops of its wings. There are no details to the feathers, but on the outline a few have lifted from otherwise smooth lines. At least that’s what he thinks he sees through the blood.

He bids Natasha good night. His watch isn’t until three in the morning and the captain needs her rest. He slips away below decks where he spends most of his nights. (He’d share with Natasha but she says he snores.) A bit of quiet digging in the pitch black room yields proper bandaging for his arm until the bleeding stops.

He slips into his hammock and dozes, his mind flitting over other memories of the mishaps and adventures he had been on with Natasha.

At least being her first mate is never boring. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Of Piratical Notions, Faulty Compasses, and the Resulting Misadventures on the High Seas (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872432) by [Insidious Inkstains (sidneybelveire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidneybelveire/pseuds/Insidious%20Inkstains)




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